


placid, cool, peculiar-- must i go on?

by DidiNyx



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Character Study, Confessions, Conversations, Domestic Fluff, John Watson is a Good Friend, Life Partners, Relationship Study, Short & Sweet, and a nerd, i just wanted to write something don't mind me, i'm honestly just as lame as watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-02 09:43:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19438867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DidiNyx/pseuds/DidiNyx
Summary: Sherlock just froze there, knowing every detail. His pale features were always relaxed, as if his mind wasn't calculating. But Watson knew he was, and he just didn't get it. Sherlock shrugs and smokes again, then looks toward the new Persian rug. As if the rug was growing on him, a little.Indeed, Watson doesn't get it. Why didn't he just say so?





	placid, cool, peculiar-- must i go on?

**Author's Note:**

> i've been looking for an excuse to write this for like a year sdkjfnsdklj
> 
> p.s. i'm not arthur conan doyle so i didn't write sherlock's lengthy explanations :) sue me

Sherlock was quite unconventional, a very particular and-- daresay, _peculiar_ \-- man. He had specific tastes and everything outside what he deemed "necessary" was all rambles and ambiguity of no concern. Hell, the man didn't know hardly anything about space, and he was a chemist and a beloved detective. Watson couldn't believe his partner sometimes, really, he had the strangest way of putting things and those mood swings could be suffering for _both_ of them. Watson knew all these things, and it was odd how the public didn't. Not that Sherlock was shy. Yes, just _particular_ , as mentioned, about his circle of friends. But even that was wrong, he befriended commonfolk. Okay, he was intimate-- no, is that right too?-- well, Watson was the only one who knew about some of those odd fancies. For example, who were to believe that Sherlock smoked _cocaine_?

Watson waved that thought aside, trying not to daydream. It was quite easy, however, when Sherlock was busy in his own mind doing God knows what at this very second as Watson tried to entertain himself with a chess board. Ah, but chess with only one player isn't a game at all. Sighing, Watson muttered something in Sherlock's direction about going out and Sherlock merely grunted in reply.

Classic Holmes. And what a name!

*

Watson enjoyed walks. They were peaceful, and after years in the war it was a luxury to just be calm. Perhaps that's why he agreed to stay with the highly noted Sherlock Holmes to begin with. His eccentric yet endearing personality-- his rather cool, individualistic nature-- it all stirred something within Watson, and now his heart was like the strings of Sherlock's violin. As in, Sherlock knew exactly to pull at Watson's hidden desires and sentiments.

Example? Sherlock would be found hidden in plain sight-- literally, for he was sneaky and good at disguise. But also in Watson's rather artistic (or, at least, imaginative and creative) view of things. He'd see Sherlock simply in the clouds that floated above, the stars that hung in the sky, the glistening dew on the grass. He never dared confront Sherlock about this. He was rather closed off about certain emotions-- those beyond simple politeness-- and of course it is established Sherlock's logical thinking was so placid that he'd just mock Watson's ideas. He even said so himself, Watson's tendency to romanticize fact in his countless narratives proved that he was pretty unreliable in any aspects that didn't include friendship. 

At least, Watson hoped Sherlock considered it as much as a friendship as he did himself.

Just as Watson was about to shut off this line of thinking as well, something spotted his eye. Some folk were having a yardsale, it seemed, and amongst the countless knickknacks and home supplies was a Persian rug. This rug in particular caught Watson's eye. He always had a love for odd materialistic things like that, but this one reminded him of Sherlock. It was pale with color-- odd!-- with sharp patterns and very neat silvery stiching on the sides. It laid there, indifferent, a little far off from everything else. It was rather dusty-- ancient, almost-- and Watson could feel the encounters this old rug had been through without having to know any fact. Speaking of which... perhaps Sherlock would know of its background. It could be nothing special, worthless in value, but it _was_ worth a shot.

Watson purchased the cheap rug and gladly carried it back home.

*

When Watson arrived home, Sherlock was reclining in his chair reading the newspaper. A huff of smoKe filled the air, and all was quiet. It was times like this Watson would gladly write about how comfortable and lovely the atmosphere was, how lucky he felt to have a home shared with a person he cherished greatly. Though the house settled with indifference-- everything in its usual spot, including Sherlock who was still within his own mind often-- there was something pleasing about it. That was probably for the best, for after countless cases to be looked into and solved it was great to come back to a place waiting, always waiting.

"Holmes, I am back from my short walk. May I ask your opinion on something?"

"Hmm? Oh, of course, Watson. Nothing's interesting in the paper today anyways." He turned around to face Watson and immediately he eyed the rug. He smiled a little, eyes sparkling. "Oh? Did this rug enchant you enough to bring it here?"

"Yes. Where shall we put it?"

"Hmm. Well, it wouldn't match the living room." Sherlock rubbed at his chin. "In fact, the only I'm sure it'll fit and match is your own room. If that's fine with you."

Slightly disappointed, Watson figured he should've considered that when he bought it. Too late now. "Sure. But, ah-- I was thinking, why not put it in the hallway?"

"That could work. Come, let's investigate." Despite himself, Watson chuckled at that. The easy " _let's investigate the hallway!_ " was the same as " _let's investigate_ our _hallway_!" and though that was a very, very small thing to care about, Watson cared about it deeply. 

_Maybe it's childish, but who's to say Sherlock's excitement can't be childish too? He's at least slightly human after all._

Sherlock had grabbed the rug from Watson and examined the hallway. He nodded. "This could work."

Watson felt rather proud of himself.

They both carefully laid the rug down, and Watson noted with joy how Sherlock ran his hand over the material. He nodded in satisfaction, a half smile still on his face.

"Alright. So, why the rug?"

Watson shrugged, not willing to give away the full, awfully heartfelt answer. "It reminded me of the house, in a strange way," Watson decided on saying. "Not that we don't have enough furniture. I supposed it would just look nice."

"Well, I can agree with on that, it does look rather exquisite." He grabbed his magnifying glass and studied the carpet thoroughly-- crawling in a kind of funny manner, Watson though-- before he began to walk back to his chair. It wasn't a real emotional response-- Watson wasn't expecting that, Sherlock's interest in the carpet was probably due to his boredom-- and yet he felt as if he'd completed his own mission, his own case.

Sherlock was flipping through the newspaper again, bored. The way his eyes kept darting from the paper to the ceiling told Watson he was preparing some sort of speech, perhaps, or was going to say something about the rug's history.

However, when the time was for Sherlock to speak, he simply said: "Thanks."

 _Thanks._ Watson let that sink in. 

He smiled. "Of course."

Sherlock lowered his head-- the way he did when he was deeply concentrating. Watson waited patiently.

Finally, Sherlock said: "Is there something about the rug that fascinates you?"

"Hmm. When I bought it, I did figure you could tell me something about its background."

"That's all?"

 _Not completely._ "Yes."

Sherlock hummed. "Well, it _is_ an authentic piece-- you can guess that from the colors used and the lack of variation, plus it has worn a little on the sides-- and although these can be faked by factories... I suppose you bought it from a few streets down?"

Watson nodded.

"Ah," said Sherlock with some delight, "I know the people who were selling it, then. Yes, they have quite an interesting collection. I know where the got it from too and all that, but I won't bore you with facts like that."

"No, tell me." So Sherlock did, and Watson listened attentively and patiently. Rambles from Sherlock might as well be some people's spouting of poetry!

When Sherlock was finished, he stretched. "Well, that is all I have to say. Is there anything on your mind?"

"No, not in particular."

"But you're wringing your hands in that nervous way, you're fiddling with the cuffs of your dress shirt."

 _Of course he'd find out, and ask._ "But it's really nothing of concern. Just idle thoughts."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully and lowered his head again. "But I just shared _my_ idle thoughts," came the rebuttal. 

Feeling quite cornered-- one can't help to feel that in Sherlock's presence anyway-- Watson sighed. "I suppose you're right. It would be fair." When Sherlock didn't answer, Watson explained: "Well, it's just that the rug almost felt personal to me. It reminded me of the house, like I said, and I meant that it was just nice to contribute to a shared house. The rug would be like that of a gift, then, yes? A thank you for all the times we've had in this house. Our house." Watson added the last part timidly, glancing at Sherlock's listless form. No other sign of any emotion crossed his face or figure. "...If that makes sense."

"I think I understand." Sherlock's odd, small smile came back when he lifted his head. He just froze there, knowing every detail. His pale features were always relaxed, as if his mind wasn't calculating. But Watson knew he was, and he just didn't get it. Sherlock shrugs and smokes again, then looks toward the new Persian rug. As if the rug was growing on him, a little.

Indeed, Watson doesn't get it. Why didn't he just say so?

The irony. _I think I understand,_ as if there were any doubt to begin with.

"Watson," Sherlock spoke up. "Your way of thinking is different than mine."

Watson blushed. Of course, always the inferior!

"So, what exactly did you see when you looked at the rug? While I observed fact, what did you do?" He didn't ask it sharply, simply with objective curiosity. No malice, no folly.

"I simply saw you."

A pause. The smoke still flows in the air, Sherlock is still quiet. Until...

"...Oh."

Watson laughed harshly. "'Oh'? Is that all you can say? I mean, I know it's rather foolish, but--"

"No, no." Sherlock turned around again to face Watson. "Do you think you can elaborate?"

Watson cleared his throat. "Well, it's a rather pale rug with sharp designs-- like your, um, face. To put it bluntly. And when I first saw it, it glistened in that odd way, though it was dusty. It looked rather ancient and I thought it must've been on a handful of adventures. Such as yourself. I thought it as a rare novelty, one I had to have. So..." Watson scoffed at himself. "Again, rather like you." 

After another pause-- and Sherlock's intense staring-- Watson added: "I knew you could deduce its origin. So I thought it would be fun to show you. I know that's a very... _baffling_ way of telling it, but you asked. So there you go, that's my reasoning. I know I'm not good with words like you are when it counts, but that's how I feel."

_Alas, a romantic._

"...Try not to look too down on me. That is my only request."

"You requests are poor," Sherlock said. "You act as if I am not, at times, a romantic too. I play violin, I enjoy the opera. There are certain melodies that take me back to the past-- though there is really no need to look at the past often--and you have me admit that there are certain beauties within that art that remind me of you, too."

"...Oh."

Sherlock chuckled gently. "I don't see how one can be so shy after _years_ of teamwork."

"You just don't talk about these things a lot. I simply figured you weren't interested in hearing them."

"I can see why you'd think I have no real care for flattery, but dear Watson, if you ever feel like you must say something to me-- no matter how foolish and odd-- you must tell me. I want to know what my partner is thinking and feeling, and sometimes you express ideas a lot better than me. Believe it or not."

Watson blushes and clasped his hands. "I-- Yes, that's noted."

"Thank you, Watson."

"Of course, Sherlock."

"Even though you underestimated me."

"Did--Did not!"

Sherlock grinned. He-- well, damn. Watson smiled and shook his head. "I can't believe you."

"But you will. As I believe you."

It was a peaceful day afterward-- especially so after such an odd confession, a clash of ideas that really weren't too different after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> it's been a long time since i've read sherlock and honestly this is WAY overdue. that explains how short and terribly lacking it is 
> 
> also my search history now contains info on persian/oriental rugs. why rugs to begin with? i absolutely have no idea, i guess out of all the homely accessories i want irl mostly consist of decorative furniture... and for some reason i feel like watson can relate. a fellow "rug-a-nista" (i wasn't lame enough to come up with that name, it was the website i swear)


End file.
